Max: Right.

Me: This isn’t a game, it’s my future.

Max: I know.

Me: It’s only a few fake dates.

Max: Make sure it stays that way.

Me: Okay.

Max: I mean it, D. You do not want to get on Lina’s bad side.

Me: She has a good one?

Me: Kidding.

Max: Line. Crossed. I’m kicking your ass the next time I see you.

Max: Listen, I don’t know the details, but I know Solange doesn’t need your brand of bullshit.

Me: What the hell. I’m an honest guy.

Max: Says the man who just agreed to fake a relationship.

Me: Honest about my feelings, asshole.

Max: Semantics, dude.

Me: Are you done?

Max: Yes.

Me: You have nothing to worry about. Check in when you have something useful to say.

Me: Are we still on for basketball tomorrow?

Max: Yeah.

I toss the phone and my reading glasses on the desk, then massage my temples, the eyestrain from staring at a computer all day finally getting to me. Now’s as good a time as any to make my way over to Solange’s. Taking a quick tour of her apartment and eating carry-out together at mine sounds like an ideal way to spend the evening. I’m glad Solange suggested we do this; it reassures me that we’re equally committed to the success of our ruse.

As I pack up to leave, I can’t help smiling about our conversation at the café. She’s a bright woman. Confident. Takes pride in her convictions. Deploys her sarcasm with the skill of a seasoned trial lawyer wooing a jury. And she’s definitely a good sport for helping me out. But in the end, Solange has a wanderer’s soul, and she’s obviously still finding herself. Can’t wait to see what she does when she finally figures out her place in the world.

At this stage in my life, I’m looking for someone just as goal-oriented as I am, a person who knows what they want and is well on their way to getting it. Without the baggage of being in love with someone else, of course. So as much as I hate to give Max credit, he’s absolutely spot-on about this: There is no point in blurring the lines with Solange. Good thing is, I’m not inclined to anyway.

*  *  *

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the guy who’s trying to steal my girlfriend.”

The Black man at Solange’s apartment door looks me up and down as a dozen thoughts crash into my head at once: What the hell is going on? I thought Solange wasn’t dating. How is our pretend relationship going to work if she’s with someone? Did Solange tell him about our arrangement? And how is his goatee so damn perfect? There isn’t a single blemish on his dark brown skin. Does this man even eat sugar? Should I dodge and weave now or protect my jaw and back out slowly?